Love Bites
by NuncaNiem
Summary: It began with a Malfoy with a grudge. But then again, if it were only that, things would have been much simpler. Veela!Harry
1. You Could Almost Taste Freedom

_-Prologue-_

 _You Could Almost Taste Freedom_

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 **A/N:** Reworking of Beauty in the Wild. Smut with PLOT. With capital letter. Pairing is H/HR, as it always is.

For those who want to see the prior version, search for it in my profile. Although that version will be discontinued.

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 **Disclaimer:** I love doing fanfiction for this site. Enjoy.

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 _"Avada Kedavra!"_

 _"Expelliarmus!"_

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward.

"You've not seen the end of me, Harry Potter," Riddle rasped with the last of his breath. Pitifully, the dark wizard's body did not even twitch in order to launch at his enemy his trademark baleful glare. Instead he laid, at the wait of death, just like he should have all those years ago in Godric's Hollow, after his Killing Curse had bounced off the infant he was trying to murder in cold blood.

But Harry was not fond of Tom's promises of death. In fact, he was almost sure he'd had enough of them from Trelawney in Divination and he would not give Voldemort the satisfaction of eluding the inescapable at the nick of time.

Finally.

"Goodbye, Tom," Harry muttered and uttered the final spell which would put down the inhuman being who'd done his best to take his life.

Voldemort exploded into pieces of gore. Without pause, Harry showered the remains with green fire, in hopes that no one would ever come up with the thought of resurrecting the dark tosser from the dead.

For a moment, everything was still. The subdued Death Eaters, the Aurors, his friends, his allies stared as Harry looked up to them, green shining just as bright on his face as the sun.

Then the world exploded into cheers and everyone smiled.

 _"We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one._ _And Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!"_ Peeves sang over the noise of congratulations and relieved sobbing.

Because the battle was over. They had won against Voldemort's dark forces.

Harry Potter stood victorious over the corpse of his worst enemy. He who represented the evil of wizardkind—the head of the snake they'd submitted to their will—no other than Lord Voldemort had died at the end of Harry Potter's wand.

It was over. They were free from the threat of Lord Voldemort! Lord Voldemort who also had proved to be a sham. Lord Voldemort whose other name was no other than Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort, whose half-blooded life ended with the nightmare.

 _Potter's done it!_ Everyone was celebrating the death of the Dark Lord.

Well, almost everyone. Harry almost didn't notice Malfoy coming from behind. It was merely a passing glance, but just like that, it was obvious to him that Malfoy was at the end of his tether. Tired and trembling from magical exhaustion as he was, Harry knew then that he shouldn't let his guard down.

He'd expected the attack. And sure enough, like a traitorous viper, Draco struck.

His mother, seeing this, gaped in horror from the sidelines.

"DRACO, NO!" she yelled.

"SANGUINEM FERVENTIS!" (1) he roared.

Too late. The spell missed, went well over Harry's head and all but struck another target, one kneeling Lucius Malfoy, much to Harry's confusion.

A nasty smirk marred his rival's face. "You'll pay for humiliating my family like this," Malfoy seethed forebodingly.

"I must say, Malfoy, your aim hasn't gotten any better," Harry retorted back, the grip on his wand tight.

"Ah, but," Draco sneered, "you weren't my target, Potty."

Alarm rang loudly in his head. He was about to retaliate, when a startled yell reached his ears, "Harry, watch out!" And someone blindsided him from behind. Harry Potter hit the ground on his back and wheezed in surprise at the sight of his attacker.

His mind stuttered. There, no other than Lucius Malfoy stared back at him with eyes so dark that rivalled those of the void. In a face that was so pasty white in a typical day, Harry felt like he was staring right at a Lethifold of a rare variety. Then Malfoy just had to prove him wrong and opened his mouth, exposing the sharp fangs that hid the true nature behind that arrogant sneer.

Harry's perception got wonkier from there.

All he was aware of was of Ripper chewing on his insides, Voldemort having a field day with his Unforgivables and Fenrir Greyback sinking his teeth on his neck. Not in that specific order—and Harry wasn't sure if any of that happened at all.

Lucius Malfoy bit him and suddenly, he felt like he was dying.

Harry tried to pull away from the Malfoy feasting on his flesh, to no avail. Already, his sight had darkened considerably, spots appearing in his vision and all coherent thought flew out the window as he felt the beginnings of torture.

Harry knew then—he _was_ dying.

No Elder Wand was going to save him here. No Deadly Hallows would work against death. Harry understood now with terrifying clarity.

And Harry howled.

Finally, someone shoved Malfoy off him, but the damage was already done. Harry Potter's body was tearing itself apart—he could feel it giving on him, and the liquid cursed fire which licked his veins—it spread with a mind of its own—gorged through his organs like they were made out of parchment. Thousands of needles were searing at his skin, like lava scorching him alive and a gutting him mercilessly over and over— from his arm to his torso and abdomen and lower and higher.

Harry convulsed and gurgled out blood. The myriad of smells around him made him retch violently to the side as well, but they paled in comparison to the other physical sensations he was experiencing.

"HARRY!" A bushy mane was all he could grasp onto now and he could practically feel the scent of the person flowing freely into his nostrils, his body trembling in both unthinkable pain and physical ache for that particular aroma—it masked the others, thank Merlin. It was vastly more pleasant than the smell of shite and gore that fouled the air.

He was not letting go.

Harry breathed it in greedily. He still hurt and screeched uncontrollably, but he could admittedly say that it felt better being embraced by this person than being confined to suffering alone on the ground.

"What's happening to him!?"

"I don't know! Harry! Harry, can you hear me? Say something, please!"

Mum. How he wished she was her. It was her. His mother was screaming at him and holding him in her arms. But it didn't matter, did it?—he was dying. Or was already dead and something had gone wrong when he was crossing over. Maybe his soul hadn't made the trip safely and now he was no better than the soul pieces—those blasted Horcruxes Voldemort had placed about the country. The very real possibility made him shudder. Sure, he'd wanted to die and meet his mum some day, as he did Sirius and his dad, but not in this way!

 _Lucius Malfoy's teeth bit down—_

There was Fiendfyre in his blood.

Harry moaned. Make it stop! he wanted to beg. But the garbled words made no difference—no difference at all.

His mother tightened her grip on him and for that reason alone, Harry was assaulted by the inane urge of biting her. Then the pain reclaimed his attention and his thirst was buried six feet under as he fought to stay conscious.

"We're losing him!"

A kneeling man, who couldn't be any older than he, smacked his cheek repeatedly. He carried a sword, of all things, in his other hand.

"Shite, Hermione! We've got to get the venom out of his system!" he said.

"Do you know the venom purging spell, Neville?" his mother asked frantically.

But the man was already shaking his head. "We've got to reach Madam Pomfrey," he said.

Now Harry was sure that his imagination was running wild. Lily Potter was not Hermione. His best friend was not a redhead and her curls were in a right state last time he saw her in the battlefield. This woman overlapped and went against everything he knew of Hermione Granger—he'd even go as far as to say she was heavenly and his best friend was certainly not that. He hadn't allowed himself to think of her that way after Ron admitted to having feelings for their female best friend. This Neville was probably not real either.

Confronted with hard evidence of his delusions, Harry was now mildly aware that his mind was playing tricks on him, wandering and conjuring images that had nothing to do with the situation.

And so he watched with fuzzy eyes as Voldemort's head exploded into bits of grey matter— and just like that Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. was dead at his feet and Harry was left soaking wet. His clothes, drenched and sticky, were exactly the hue of Voldemort's eyes.

Similarly, he watched as the real Hermione Granger almost dropped dead in the Department of Mysteries, which in turn reminded him of other things he'd rather forget.

The Death Chamber, for one. That was a nightmare by itself.

A vision of Bellatrix cackling maniacally danced in front of him as Harry's eyes rolled back on the back of his head. The witch licked her lips and rolled her disgusting tongue at him in a parody of a tease as she mouthed words that smelled of spoiled honey and rotten eggs.

For some unfathomable reason, a tape recorder played and rewound in the background. On repeat, Sirius fell back into the veil in slow motion, and then— Harry blinked and Sirius was back on his feet. The cycle began again. Sirius Black all but miraculously came back into the world of the living, the arch spitting him out again and again as Sirius tempted Death with his soul with absolute carelessness. He had this big fat smile on his face—and Harry wanted nothing more than to curse it off his godfather's face so badly. He screamed himself hoarse while trying to prevent another fall, another taunt delivered directly from his tortured mind.

His hands turned claw-like. They wore down the dirt obsessively as they scratched.

Sirius' unending cycle of rebirth didn't last long, as his godfather was soon pushed back by the undeniable light of the Killing Curse everyone knew and feared. A grieving Grim jumped immediately after him, to be swallowed by the veil.

They wouldn't come back out.

"SOMEONE PUT THAT THING DOWN!" a man barked.

"Ron, behind you!"

"Bloody fucking hell, sod this! Diffindo!"

There were two separate drops, one heavier than the other.

A woman shrieked inconsolably, "YOU! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HUSBAND!?"

"Weasley, you murdered my father! I'll kill you!"

"You did this! I'll be the one to kill you, Malfoy!"

A wave of further pain hit and Harry screamed bloody murder. He clutched at his mother's arm, as if Lily Potter held the secrets of the universe and she was capable of saving him, her son—why wasn't she doing anything!? Wasn't she supposed to care about him!? Didn't she know he was in desperate need of her help!?

"Mu-!" Harry howled and arched his back with his teeth biting down. Blood dripped, but in the midst of the horror he was suffering through it was an insignificant detail he missed.

Someone cursed loudly in the distance. Droplets of something cold and salty descended over him, rolled down his face and into his mouth.

"Harry! Hang on, Harry!"

The voice was different. No longer did she sound like his mother, but she sounded no less desperate than she'd been in her last moments.

Startled by the abrupt change, Harry managed to squint for a split of second. His sight was blurry and he had trouble adjusting without his glasses—he didn't have the presence of mind to worry about those—but luckily he'd recognize her flustered face anywhere.

Harry inhaled sharply and cried out when his body protested.

Hermione? Not Lily. Never Lily.

His head swam.

She wasn't looking at him and her complexion was quite pale from fright. Her arms were covered in scratches and one side of her face was terribly bruised, as if someone had backhanded her. It took a while, but he finally realized with some difficulty that she was shielding him from something, making sure to put herself between him and the danger. Her arms held him close to her, close enough for his ear to catch the way her heartbeat was beating erratically in her ribcage. A magical cage shone around them for good measure.

She'd never been more breath-taking in his eyes.

The ground trembled beneath them as something exploded. Screams of agony and growls of an animal followed the mayhem and started tearing at his eardrums viciously.

"I can't believe it," Hermione whimpered, another small tear sliding off her face. "How could I not see it? That monster—they were his own followers!"

Harry moaned in confusion, which made her look down and smile weakly at him.

Uneasy with what he was seeing, his eyes started to darken rapidly at the sight of her resigned gaze and his chest began hissing uncomfortably with each mouthful of air he took.

Hermione, even now, had a penchant for sensing his distress. Her eyes went wide with realization and then grim acceptance. "I'll spare you the pain of the transformation, Harry," she murmured softly, voice like healing balm to his ears, and she pointed her wand at him. In spite of her inner resolve, her hand was shaking something fierce. "I'll endure for the both of us," Hermione promised him.

Protesting was hardly an option. But how he wanted to. He really wanted to.

"Stupefy!"

The last thing Harry saw was the red tip of her wand before all went black.

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(1) Blood Boiling Curse


	2. From the Chaos

_-Chapter One-_

 _From the Chaos_

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 **A/N:** We start. There are parts in this that were previously used in Beauty of the Wild. I know some of you will recognize them.

Thank you to all the people that reviewed and I hope that this lives up to your expectations. If not, too bad. I'm continuing this because I like it. It certainly flows better than the previous version. And as you can see, we've almost covered everything that was in Beauty of the Wild.

The next update will take more time. Tell me what you think about this one. What you think that will happen and so on!

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 **Disclaimer:** Veela love. Need I say more?

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Mundungus tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, quite aware of the fact that he was near a pub full of wizards—properly pissed wizards who wouldn't hesitate to curse him for doing what he was doing.

The bandy-legged thief managed to haul the unconscious wench's body behind a barrel of firewhiskey. His throat was parched and he ached as he stared at the neck of the girl he'd knocked unconscious. To top it all, her skimpy dress was hiked up above her knees, almost giving him full view of her crotch and he couldn't help but notice that she was in many ways very desirable at the moment.

His quivering hand was not in fact quivering from the cold of the night. He didn't feel it. His heart didn't beat. He was part of the Undead. His excitement made him clumsy, just as much as his newly acquired instincts, which were making him impatient with thirst.

He touched the wrench's hair—unwashed hands played with the lot of them, rubbing those uncharacteristically nurtured strands before bringing them to his nose and inhaling.

Brown sugar with a touch of honey.

Mundungus groaned out loud.

"Shite," he murmured. The strange quality of his voice seemed lost to him—gravely, slightly nasal and eerily alien. "Not the best time of the day to be outside, young lass. Morgana's tits, you'll make my night bloody lucky tonight." He licked his lips. "You're absolutely delicious, luv."

And she was. Her neck pulsed with the coppery scent of blood. His eyes were trained on a particular vein and did not stray from it as he bowed his head towards it with a hungry, parted mouth.

With unnaturally long fangs.

"What in Merlin's— _Dung?"_

Mundungus' head snapped up and his eyes kept widening in horror as he took in the sight of Dedalus Diggle gaping at him; he was looking down from over his cover, the way a Muggle would stare helplessly at a car accident.

Mundungus pushed the wench's body from him. He fell back on his arse as he tried to scurry away from his Order partner—his _human_ wizard partner. For once, his inhumanly strong muscles served him well in a hasty retreat, barely tripping, even though he knocked himself into a couple of things as he went on all fours without looking where he was going.

"Dedalus! What a terrible surprise you make!" he blurted out when he was back on his feet properly. "You scared the right crap out of me, mate. Thought you were a Hag leering at me."

"A Hag?"

"Sorry to say, you make a bloody right horrible one, mate," Mundungus' head bobbed rapidly. He shivered in fear as his back struck a wall. "Just had one encounter with one of them; in fact, it was—"

"Terribly inconvenient?" Dedalus asked. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously, looking from the unconscious witch to the thief. He saw the puncture marks on the thief's neck and the glaring brand spoiling his skin. _That_ Mark was a sign of abomination. "I think it's terribly lucky I spotted you, _mate._ What were you thinking? And how are you not rotting in Azkaban, _traitor?"_

Knowing he was caught, Mundungus dropped the charade and turned to run, only to come across another wizard leering angrily at him. He was frozen in place before he had the time to get on his knees to beg for his freedom.

"Cattermole, Madam," Dedalus greeted them with a strained smile and curt bow of his head. "Fancy meeting you here tonight. I trust your children are well?"

Mary smiled feebly at him, ever polite. But Reginald didn't even bother. Ever since Dolores Umbridge had almost sentenced his wife to spend the rest of her life in Azkaban, the redhead had grown more impatient and aggressive with other people, especially with Ministry staff, as he was convinced they all had had a hand in that too.

"You sodding Vampire," Reginald said. Already, he had his wand out to start firing. "I know your kind, leech. Why on Circe's name would you try to snag a young catch like this one otherwise?"

"To suck her dry, Reginald. No need to ask something you know the answers to," came the flat reply from his witch. She was kneeling next to the wench and applying some diagnostic charms on her. "She's fine. Just Stunned."

"That'd be another story if I hadn't found her," Diggle said sombrely.

"We don't need this kinda shite," Reginald spat. "Look at the sack of dragon dung. He's even got his fangs out!"

"Reginald—!"

"What! It _is_ true! After the defeat of You Know Bloody Well Who, we have this riffraff trying to feed on us! He should have fled to the Covens—at least there it's not anyone's responsibility what happens after to him. I don't want to have him here out in the streets. Imagine if Ellie or Maisie stumbled across him at night? I wouldn't survive the heartache! Or little Alfie. Just because he's a lecher, it doesn't mean he won't go after him too!"

"The solution to this problem is quite simple, Cattermole. We'll just have to call the Aurors on him," Dedalus pronounced.

Reginald glared at him. His opinion on the DMLE was very well known by everyone who read the _Prophet._ He was one of the leading voices against the prior regime.

"We can't kill him, dear," Mary told him. She tentatively wrapped her arms around him. Her husband relaxed just barely at her touch.

"He was there, Mary," he said brokenly. "I saw him talking to that—that _manky pink toad_ before the trial. Before—Harry Potter and Weasley came. And now this! It's like I'm destined to hate the thief!"

"Saw him, you said? Then Azkaban will suit him just fine," Mary gritted out. She kissed him on the cheek and stroked it. "Even without Dementors, he will be behind bars."

"And won't survive it," Dedalus said. He was glaring down at Mundungus. His wand spat out sparks, making Mundungus fear him more. "He cost us Moody. It's only fair he doesn't. They'll starve him to death for being a Rogue."

"Fine, call the Aurors—your bloody Order or whatever," Reginald said in a growl. "Fat load of good your lot did during the War! See if I care!"

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"Are you are indeed eighteen-years-old, Hermione Jean Granger, Muggleborn witch?" the hooded Unspeakable spoke monotonously. Over their shoulder, a Self-Writing Quill scribbled on a floating notepad.

Another Unspeakable stood guard at the door with three other Aurors, watching the proceedings with disquieting blank looks.

Hermione sighed. "Yes."

"As protocol dictates, please swear this information on your magic," they said.

Hermione hesitated. "May I use my wand, Unspeakable?" While they hadn't taken it from her, she wasn't sure if she was allowed to have it anywhere outside her pockets.

"Yes, you may."

She took it out. Her flimsy robes were a sight to behold as she held her wand up, blood-spattered and torn in places as it was. Her skin was equally as blemished, with clotting wounds going up her hands and disappearing as they reached her shoulders. She was sure that her face was also scarred, although not as badly, even if she couldn't see it at the moment. "I, Hermione Jean Granger, confirm on my magic my identity before Unspeakable Croaker, so mote it be." Vow made, her form sparked in confirmation of the veracity of the Unbreakable Vow she'd performed and Hermione willed herself to cast a weak Patronus in order to resume with the interrogation.

"Very well. You are here because of possible contamination," the Unspeakable continued in their carefully modulated tones. "Have you ever been in contact with a werewolf before the incident?"

She didn't even blink. "I first met Professor Remus John Lupin at Hogwarts when he came to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in my third year. Since then I can say with absolute certainty that we were in constant contact with each other."

"Why would you willingly associate yourself with a werewolf, Ms. Granger?" Croaker asked.

Hermione bristled at the perceived slight against Remus. "The same reason why Harry appreciated him, I guess. Because he was my friend and a great professor and I had no trouble with him being a werewolf as long as he didn't attack me."

Unspeakable Croaker paused momentarily and just stared at her. Whoever it was behind that uniform must have doubted her sanity right there; to the Ministry, werewolves were still Dark Creatures and little more than rabid dogs every full moon. Keeping her ground, Hermione gazed into the faceless cowl with a steely expression.

"Describe your symptoms to us, Ms. Granger," Croaker said, carrying on.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "My wounds acts up from time to time, but that's because I still haven't received first aid yet—I fear some must have gotten infected," she said. "That's it. I don't have any urges to bite, maim or scratch anybody, if that's what you're asking." Her voice was curt and expressed her irritability well.

"You were scratched by a partially-changed Augustus Rookwood," stated Unspeakable Croaker, "whose transformation was triggered a chain reaction caused by the Dark Lord's Mark and Draco Malfoy's Blood Boiling Curse. Has such a thing appeared on your skin anywhere?"

"Not that I know of," Hermione replied honestly. "Why the question?"

"Certain individuals, such as Seamus Finnigan and Angelina Johnson, have been searched for the Mark after they were turned and the inspections came out positive. Before we gave them to the Covens, we had to make sure."

Hermione winced. Those two had their entire life changed in a matter of seconds. Gibbon and Travers hadn't been kind to them once the bloodlust had claimed them.

"Is this a rule? You get turned and you get the Mark?" Hermione asked cautiously.

"No," Croaker denied smoothly. "Mr. Potter"— Hermione twitched— "and Mr. Boot haven't shown any signs of anything appearing in their forearms. As a matter of fact, Mr. Finnigan and Ms. Johnson are the only ones who have acquired them so far. We had them swear they wouldn't join the Death Eaters cause before they went to the Covens."

"Well, I am quite elated to inform you I don't have one on me right now," stated Hermione stiffly.

"Regardless, you'll be required to go through a thorough examination by another Unspeakable before you are allowed to leave this place," pronounced Unspeakable Croaker over the scratching sounds of quill against parchment.

Hermione closed her eyes and recited every ingredient from the Polyjuice Potion ten times in a row. When she opened her eyes, her gaze was undeniable.

Sensing the need for privacy, the Self-Writing Quill drooped slowly to the desk.

"When will we be allowed to leave?" Hermione asked.

Croaker didn't speak for a long time. Maybe they wouldn't have replied if she hadn't been an essential asset in the destruction of Lord Voldemort's regime and the dark wizard himself. After a long silent conversation with the other Unspeakable, her interrogator was more open to her. "When we are certain that anyone affected in the battlefield does not present a threat to the rest of society, Ms. Granger," the Unspeakable responded.

"And when will that be? Angelina and Seamus have already joined the Vampires, you said. Are you waiting for the full moon, by any chance?"

"That, I can't tell you, Ms. Granger. But, as a matter of fact, that may be sooner than you think," Croaker spoke evenly.

Frustrated by the apparent honesty of the Unspeakable, Hermione allowed herself to lean over slightly in the unisex wizard's direction. "And what about Harry?" she asked, voice soft.

"I am unsure about what you are asking, Ms. Granger. The Man Who Conquered has been moved to a secure area. He won't be disturbed."

Man Who… Oh, Harry wouldn't like that. Just what lies had the _Daily Prophet_ spread in their absence? "Secure where?" Hermione insisted, unyielding on this matter. "And what— _exactly_ —is happening to Harry?"

Croaker was stiff in their seat. "You know very well what's happening to him, Ms. Granger. Your brains are legendary even amongst those who weren't your contemporaries in school. Knowing that, I suspect you already have a hunch, if not a strong conviction in mind."

"But men can't turn into Veela," Hermione parroted back what she recalled reading in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. Newt Scamander was very adamant in this point because he was utterly disgusted with the girlish fantasies Alvena Haughton had managed to get published in Wizarding America. That authoress was responsible of many worldwide misconceptions, not just in Veela.

"Mr. Potter has a grave tendency to defy what's defined," Croaker said. "Two Killing Curses, exposure to countless Cruciatus— _an unpossessed living Horcrux…_ The transformation has not been kind to Mr. Potter, as I've been told. Nevertheless, he hasn't dropped dead yet and he is still assimilating the venom, so he still has a fighting chance yet."

"Can I see him?" Hermione asked quietly.

Croaker turned to the other Unspeakable again and Hermione only regained their attention once the figure nodded in affirmative.

Slowly, the Unspeakable stood up. Hermione hastily did the same once she noticed that Croaker wanted to exit the chamber and trotted so that she could more or less keep up with the Unspeakable's long strides. With a shiver, she noticed that the Aurors and the other Unspeakable hadn't moved from their positions and only stared after them in their assigned posts. She could feel their eyes burning on her back.

It was a bit creepy.

When she got out of there, she wasn't surprised when she saw that they were in the Department of Mysteries. The dark tiles and torches which lightened up the corridors were evoking vastly confusing feelings in the young witch. Still, the memories from the battle against Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix LeStrange and Voldemort's Death Eaters were still fresh in her mind, so it was rather uncomfortable for Hermione to be back there when she knew that both Lucius and Bellatrix were no longer living.

Those horrid letters Bellatrix had carved in Malfoy Manor with her cursed knife were pulsing eerily in her inner forearm.

They didn't say anything for a while as they walked. Croaker, being an experienced personnel of the Department of Mysteries, knew exactly where to go. The room could spin as it liked—Croaker seemed to have the preternatural ability to know which door led to where, because they never got lost in their way and soon Hermione was left standing with Croaker in front of a little white door almost kissing the black marbles of the floor.

The door looked shrunken, as if it was purposely that way to prevent any unfortunate break-ins. It was almost like the Unspeakables had taken inspiration in Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_ ideas and produced them in real life—briefly, she wondered if they had vials or anything to eat stocked somewhere nearby.

"We learnt from your last visit, Ms. Granger, and took many precautions to ensure that it wouldn't happen again," Croaker informed her without inflection or looking at her perplexed expression.

Hermione flushed brightly, remembering the state they had left the Department of Mysteries in after confronting the Death Eaters in the Hall of Prophesies. She wasn't sure whether to apologize or keep quiet for the destruction they had left behind.

The choice was taken out of her hands when Croaker knelt and tapped the white door in a quick pattern with their wand, too fast for her to catch, and the door began growing and growing. When it stopped, it was two times bigger than her.

Croaker went in without holding the door for her and Hermione was forced to squeeze herself through the gap before it closed on her.

"This is against protocol, Ms. Granger—However, what do you know about the Veela?" Croaker asked her. The magicked voice echoed with the walls around them.

Hermione breathed in deeply. "Veela are semi-human magical beings; beautiful women with white-gold hair and skin that appears to shine moon-bright. When angry, Veela take on a less pleasant appearance; their faces elongate into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long scaly wings burst from their shoulders."

"Standard definition. Newt Scamander. He wrote a book about magical creatures—a bestseller, I imagine."

"You'd imagine right," Hermione nodded curtly as she examined everything around her. Looking through the little windows, she could see that these rooms acted as holding cells—reserved for special cases only?—and she was counting just how many rooms there were here and how many appeared to be occupied.

There were a lot of people in here. Was she supposed to be shocked? She felt strangely numb at the moment. She wasn't even feeling in control of her limbs.

Suddenly, the Unspeakable stopped walking. There were fewer doors around them now and Croaker held a key in their hand. It was impossible to tell if they were a witch or a wizard; even their hands were genderless.

"Let me correct a few notions of yours, Ms. Granger," they began. "Veela as a rule— _do not_ —always have white-gold hair or ethereal skins. Veela, just like us, wizards, can have other hair colours and skin complexions. The purer the Veela, the fairer the hair and skin. However, Mating does not allow for inbreeding and nowadays it's rarer to see pure Veela than just Veela. The species pursues newer blood these days and has been seen Mating with wizards more now than ever."

That being said, the Malfoys came to mind—pure, fair and proud; coincidentally, Scamander's traditional description for Veela—and how they never seemed to have female daughters, no matter what.

Hermione was thinking quickly, sticking to the information that Croaker had told her earlier— Harry was the exception, not the rule, she told herself.

"Excuse me, but I was thinking and—Can Veela ancestry be suppressed?" she asked. "Could the Malfoys have lied to us all this time of their roots?"

Croaker seemed to be looking at her. They were quick to connect the dots. "I would take a specific curse in order to achieve that, Ms. Granger. But yes. Indeed, after close examination it was confirmed that the Malfoys, as pure as they claimed to be, had Veela blood mixed with theirs. They must have had many complications conceiving if they rejected all of their daughters—they were the only candidates for being Veela, you understand. Boys are simply unsuitable for the species for some reason still unknown to us—a reason I might very well like to look into soon." Maybe if their voice hadn't been charmed to sound monotonous, she would have heard the approval in the Unspeakable's voice.

Abortion, Hermione gathered from what they said with abject horror. They had killed their own children in the womb just for the sex they were destined to be born with. They didn't want to give away their greatest secret so they killed them. Oh, their cruelty knew no bounds. Her opinion of the Malfoys had not been favourable before, but now they were the lowest of the lowest.

"That explains why they are so pale. Even if they weren't— _female_ —they still had the genes!" Hermione breathed out. Her chin was cupped within her hand. Her eyes widened as she came to a realization. "And then when Lucius attacked Harry as a Veela—it wasn't a fluke! Voldemort must have known the truth—he knew and used that against him, thinking it would be the perfect punishment for failing him. He would be dooming a servant from the grave."

Croaker twitched at the name. "You are right, Ms. Granger," they said calmly. "Augustus Rookwood also happened to have someone in his family tree that'd been bitten—although not in a full moon, so the relative wasn't cast out of the family tree and allowed to marry. The same goes for every single Death Eater in service. Vampire, Hag, Werewolf, Banshee, Giants, Ghouls, Veela—it doesn't matter which. The same Mark their master bestowed them with brought out a violent reaction in their blood causing them to lash out at the most inconvenient moment. Their rational thoughts couldn't compete with their instincts and they overrode them with ease."

"Which started with Draco Malfoy aiming at the Dark Mark!" Hermione exclaimed.

 _Had he known?_ Had Draco known what Voldemort had had in mind or that he too would lose his humanity when he had cast that curse? Or was his hatred of Harry so strong that he just didn't care? And Voldemort was petty enough for something like that, thought Hermione. What blood purists valued most was the 'purity' of their blood. It was what made them superior to the Muggles and the Muggleborn. They had amassed power with that sole belief. In the event that he died, Voldemort must have thought that they would have carried on without him, scot-free, and, selfishly, he concocted a plan to make them suffer in the aftermath of his death.

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling like she had aged a century. All those years of putting up with blood purity and… It turns out that they weren't all that pure after all? It all seemed so silly in retrospect.

"Now, for your visit to Mr. Potter," Croaker said.

Hermione bit her lip.

"You are not the first one to see him," Croaker said. "Young Ginevra Molly Weasley, like many others, thought she could help him through the transformation, only to be rejected instantly. According to what she told us, she wanted to bond with him so that the pain of the transformation was eased with the consumption of her blood."

She winced in sympathy. And Ginny was the one he'd been dating, Hermione thought nervously. To be rejected by Harry so harshly… That was rough.

"But Veelas don't need the blood to help them ease the transformation," Hermione countered, ever logical. Veelas enjoyed the consumption of blood especially during sexual intercourse, but they didn't need it for nourishment.

"As I said before, Mr. Potter defies the defined," Croaker said. "Mating with someone he is close to would have been entirely beneficial for his survival. The venom has already changed him enough for that—the thing in question is if Mr. Potter is strong enough to sustain his body's changes. The venom won't allow him to regress completely back to human and having a mate would make him more compatible with his new species."

"Unspeakable Croaker, you sound like you're trying to convince me to try to be his mate," Hermione said. She looked at the hooded figure beseechingly, with large eyes.

What she got in response made her almost drop her wand in shock. The Unspeakable, whose job involved having their face covered at all times at work, let the hood sag back onto _his_ shoulders.

It was an apparition of sorts. She hadn't expected the Unspeakable to smile at her so good-naturedly with his identity exposed.

"You are—but, how? Mr. Lovegood!" Hermione cried out.

He arched one long, thin eyebrow. "Unspeakably? Partially—every once in a while, of course. A tad unexpectantly, Croaker chose to croak—all too soon and I was his chosen replacement." Hermione still looked dazed. "Ms. Granger, there many things in this world that no one can begin to understand. Which is more farfetched? The delusions of a poor kooky editor of a small newspaper or the cover said wizard has thrown over himself like a shawl? My income has to come from somewhere and _The Quibbler,_ as charming as my writing gets, was never going to cut it with my reputation."

That was… dreadfully logical from him. Last time she'd seen Luna's dad, he had called the Death Eaters on them to try to retrieve his daughter from their grasp. His ultimate betrayal had been like a punch in the gut and had made the trio warier—they hadn't tried to approach anyone else they didn't trust with their lives.

"My Luna said that now I know Stubby Boardman felt when he wasn't in hols riding with the Heliopaths," Xenophilius said grimly. "And I agree. I was never a fan of closed spaces, even in my own home."

"You… went to Azkaban," Hermione remembered. She ducked her head down. "I'm sorry."

The wizard shook his head. "I'll never recover the memories which led me there, Ms. Granger, but I know that you did what you had to in order to survive." He patted her on the back. "We seem to have gotten carried away," he told her gently.

Xenophilius—Unspeakable Croaker? How did that happen?—gave her a large key. Crouching slightly, he looked at her directly in the eye. "The reason why I know all of what we've discussed today is because I myself share close blood ties with the Malfoys," he said. "Had I gotten myself branded in my desperation I would have ended the same as Draco and Lucius. For this, you have my profound thanks, Ms. Granger."

"Hermione," she corrected him. "Call me Hermione. Ms. Granger is getting tiring fast."

"Only if you call me Xeno."

She nodded. "It's only fair."

Xenophilius' eyes were laughing at her, in an eerie sort of way. "You _are_ opening your mind," he said. "Well, Hermione, you do have now the key to Harry Potter's room. Do as you like. I'll be waiting out here for you. He'll certainly be happy to see you."

"Harry, happy?" Hermione echoed his words back to him without understanding.

"Oh, yes. He's missed you terribly while you were gone." Xenophilius nodded to himself. "Now go. He needs you to save him from the Wrackspurts. The warded room will do the rest of the work, methinks."

Leerily, Hermione asked, "But wouldn't the bite trasform me too?"

"No. Not at all. It really wouldn't," the wizard rebutted instantly.

Hermione looked at him queerly, suspecting he knew something he wasn't letting on, but Luna's dad didn't glance at her, humming merrily under his breath as he put on his hood up again. With the hood blocking his face, the charms on his voice went into work again, so the tune turned out to be a sombre drawl worthy of a funeral march—and absolutely dreadful to her ears.

Hermione steeled herself mentally, imagining Harry screaming—Harry on the verge of death—Harry in pain—Harry looking like a crossbreed of a bird and a human… The list went on and her protective instincts were kicking in overdrive. Her heart was loud in her ears.

If he doesn't want me there, though, I'll have to leave, she reminded herself. Hermione gave herself one fierce nod and plunged the key into the keyhole—twisting and pushing, the large metal door swung open without a squeak.

The insides of Harry's room were very reminiscent of what she'd pictured of a loon's den. Like a muggle asylum—everything cushioned and designed to give the one living inside no chance of hurting oneself. In this case, however, everything was covered in protective charms—and Harry—Harry was retrained in a body bind on his bed, feet and hands tied up. He was relentless in his movements, rolling from one side to the other, kicking and screaming under a mild silencing charm. His eyes were wide open and purely black—features more angular and strong—his wind-swept hair was more of a dark jungle sitting on top of Harry's head, wilder, even more untameable than ever. Hermione could tell he'd gotten slightly bigger since the last time she saw him. More muscles. More of a gap between the shoulders. No doubt result of the venom's influence overnight.

Hermione frowned and took some faltering steps towards him.

She didn't like the bruises on his skin. Also product of the venom, unfortunately.

Her best friend was at a dangerous crossroads. The venom could break him or make him—quite literally, really.

"Harry?"

His body convulsed one more time and then stopped shuddering abruptly. His head turned slowly in her direction, mouth opening and closing sporadically, as if to gasp for air, but sniffing loudly though his nose. His chest heaved heavily—more pronounced now that he was looking at her.

Her heart clenched with pain.

"Harry," she said, her feet making her close the distance between the two of them quickly.

Her hand was shaking. Some part of her wanted to touch him, even hug him as she always did—but, no. That wouldn't work. Her rational nature was quick to reset itself and she kneeled next to him—just close enough to be near, but not close enough to hamper a quick escape on her part if it was necessary.

So far, so good. He didn't even growl at her. In fact, he hadn't been very responsive to her presence in his territory. She wasn't even sure if he could see her with his pupils dilated like they were. No glasses either, they were probably broken—but did Veela even need them to see? Was he relying on his sense of smell instead? Had he somehow recognized her through the haze of pain and confusion?

Feeling the hope blossoming inside of her, she smiled weakly at her friend. "Do you recognize me, Harry? I'm Hermione. My name is Hermione Granger. I'm your best friend."

His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, the jaw moving as if he didn't know how to use it properly. His newly-grown fangs were perfectly visible from where she was. Silver venom was flowing out of them—further evidence that all was not well in the world.

She deactivated the silencing wards, just in case he was trying to talk to her. However, the moment she did not much of anything was heard from him, with the negligible exception of uncomprehensible shrills of sound coming from a sore throat.

Hermione laughed at her naivety. "Yeah, that's what I thought too," she said.

Cautiously, not able to help herself, she reached out and touched his forehead. She swept his grimy hair to a side in order to feel his temperature and as she did so, she caught a glimpse of his infamous scar. The one that was almost entirely healed now that it was without Voldemort's Horcrux to inhabit. It made this seem all the more real—Voldemort was really gone, but they weren't out of the woods yet.

Harry's skin was clammy and sticky to the touch—caked with mud, blood and sweat, but she didn't care in the slightest about that. She needed the reassurance. She needed the physical contact. In her defense, he seemed to enjoy it too.

She watched with a small smile as he drew in a quirky breath and his eyes drooped noticeably. He relaxed, but his eyes stayed on her all the same, staring and unmoveable. And his jaw continued to jerk awkwardly… Trying to do something.

Feeling daring, her fingers glided across his scalp. Rubbed and eased the pain the only way she knew how to without disrupting the wards.

Her hands began touching his face, feeling the prick of his stubble, feeling herself bend forward slightly with interest at the sensation—and Harry moaned.

 _He moaned._

Jumping, her hand retracted and for the first time ever, she heard him growl angrily.

"Sorry!" Hermione was so startled that she went back to touching him almost instantly. "I didn't mean for that to happen, Harry. Honestly, could you sound any more primal? It's making this very uncomfortable for me," she mumbled to herself, blushing after recalling his very obvious pleasure. He was taking this a little too far.

Shockingly, however, Harry seemed to take personal offense in what she'd said. He snapped in her direction, mouth closing where her hand would have been if had not reacted again.

It took nearly two seconds for that to sink in.

 _Harry had tried to bite her._

Hermione flinched backwards and then winced at the keening whines he emitted after seeing her reaction. She knew better than to approach him now and it was making Harry all the more distressed to have her out of reach.

Gone was now the calm Veela. Harry was trying to get to her with all he had, straining against the invisible bindings holding him in place. His black eyes, typically two pools of exquisite green, threatened to devour her with a dark passion she had never seen in her best friend.

The intent look he was giving her made her skin break into goosebumps.

"But you rejected Ginny," Hermione mumbled to absolutely no one. Her eyes were wider than Mrs. Weasley's plates back in the Burrow and her heart was absolutely no help to her, beckoning the famished Veela in front of her with rhythmic thuds.

"Mate," Harry hissed. The spell holding him back strained against his single-minded determination. Her half-crazed best friend snarled out frustration when he realized he couldn't reach her and instead resigned himself to watch her from a distance. Black leered at her hungrily.

Harry licked his fangs.

Her thoughts raced with panic. She could feel his magic reaching out to her, trying to entice her to come closer. It felt foreign—gentle, almost loving. But definitely wild. It was soon covering her like in a cocoon. Almost instantly, she felt her muscles relax.

"Mate," Harry said.

And the desire. Oh Merlin. Her lower stomach grew warmer with heat and she crossed her legs with a small whimper borne out of confusion.

"Mate," Hermione sputtered. "Who—me?"

Magic hummed in the air and made her surroundings glow softly, as if watching closely what she was doing. Anticipation and tension rose in her throat and threatened to make her choke in her own saliva. She was vaguely aware of the fact she was perspiring bullets of sweat as she looked at Harry. The air was getting hotter and she was getting dizzy. It was those blasted Veela charms, affecting her and playing with her thoughts.

"Why did you choose me, Harry?" Hermione uttered. In her eyes, tears were welling up, the shock and desire hard to keep up with.

Ron hadn't dropped by. Not a single time. Luna and Neville had, so the option to see them was there, but their mutual best friend had not appeared to visit her. Her, his prospect girlfriend.

It felt like abandonment. Another—rawer still because he had left them alone in the Forest of Dean, which she realized that couldn't be more than a few weeks ago.

And now there was Harry. Who had rejected Ginny. Who wanted her.

Her best friend who was a Veela looking for a Mate.

The heartbreak was hard to deal with and now her feelings were making a mess of herself. She didn't know what she wanted, except that she needed her friend alive and well. The words of the Unspeakable echoed in her mind. It would make things easier, Xeno had told her. Then he had implied that he'd wanted her to mate with Harry.

Did he know what that implied? There would be no one else for her! No one!

His magic pushed and she surprised herself when her body gave in to the pressure and produced a small moan. Her nipples were raw peaks of sensation under her robes. She saw him growl hungrily again and with some embarrassment she knew that he was smelling her desire, but also her reluctance and that frustrated him.

His magic pushed further. _I want you_ , it whispered into her ear. _I really want you to accept me._

"I don't want you gone, Harry," Hermione sobbed quietly. She averted her gaze. It seemed to help to her find strength inside of her to resist his charms. "I want my best friend back," she told him, voice breaking.

She didn't notice his magic leave her as she dropped to the floor. Neither did she notice his staring, hints of something human flashing in his eyes.

His Adam's apple bobbled strangely.

"Mionee…"

She jumped and turned to gawk at Harry incredulously. He was mouthing something awkwardly again, flexing his jaw in such an odd way she found herself wondering if he'd somehow gotten it dislocated without her noticing.

He tried again. "Mione…"

Hermione was numb with shock. She began crawling closer to him without a conscious thought.

"Close enough," she breathed, hoping to encourage him.

Harry didn't smile at her comment or grimace awkwardly as she would have expected her Harry to have done normally. Instead he fixed his pitch black stare into her orbs as he tried to move his mouth accordingly to the message he was struggling to break through his unwilling vocals.

"You…" he rasped slowly, as if testing the waters, "fine…?"

Her breath caught in her throat. Unbelievable. Even in this state Harry selflessly inquired about her health?

Hermione wanted to laugh hysterically. She was definitely not fine. And neither was he.

"Harry…" She said and gulped forcefully to get past that horrid knot in her throat. "Can you understand me?"

He didn't blink or react to her question, just continued to stare worriedly at her. She sighed.

"I'm fine," she said.

Harry let out something akin to a purr and let his face relax if just slightly. Hermione felt her muscles respond to the sound, relaxing mildly as well.

"You are like a cat," Hermione said amusingly to herself. She watched him stare back uncomprehendingly. "You never told me you liked Crookshanks that much, Harry."

He didn't react to her non sequitur causing her to sigh. She dabbed at her eyes, sniffing sadly.

His magic brushed hers, suspiciously gentle. She couldn't deny him access, not when she was feeling the concern and love for her coming through the swift connection. It was heart-warmingly genuine. This more than anything convinced her that she hadn't lost her best friend to the Veela's venom.

"Why me?" she asked again. Not like she expected a perfectly coherent answer. Harry seemed to be capable of only a few words of his choosing.

Still, she wanted an answer.

"Why not Ginny?" she prompted him. He scowled at her. "You love her. I could fetch her again, if you wanted. Get her to accept you as your Mate so that you can get together again. I know you looked at her in the map while we were gone. I saw you looking. You missed her, don't deny it. And I saw you pinning for her in sixth year! Remember how jealous you were then? Dean and Ginny? You were always brooding, Harry. And when you finally got together as a couple! I've never seen you any more happier than when you were with her—"

"NO."

Hermione stared at the fierce expression on his face with apprehension. She hadn't anticipated such a vehement refusal to listen to her reasoning.

"And why not?" She asked rather stupidly, in her opinion. She was getting fond of asking that. She should just stop.

"You… stay…" He growled.

Hermione sat on the bed next to him and looked at him. Just looked at him. She examined him closely, trying to find a way to talk him out of this. She felt strangely inadequate.

"It will change things," she told him quietly, trying to appeal to reason. If she mucked things up with him, then she'd rather be dead, she thought. "And I'm rather undesirable, I'll have you know." She smiled a watery at him.

Harry released a vicious snarl and tried to tear the ropes open from the inside out again to no avail.

"Mione. Mate," he said to her. Firmly. No hint of doubt in his voice. The conviction she heard from him shocked her further. Although it shouldn't. Really, it shouldn't. He had always been dead stubborn; it seemed like he was also stubborn like this too, half dead and delirious.

Of course, she thought with a grimace, there was no reasoning with him now.

Covertly, she glanced at the door—a sharp tug on her magic let her know how much he disapproved of that option. Hermione grimaced. She loathed to see that scowl on her best friend's face. What would it take to make him happy? Bond with him? Be his mate?

The warm feel of his magic was enough response to that question.

Hermione returned the favour and told him of her state of mind through their connection. The confusion, the heartache, the anxiety and the fear assaulting her, all of it she pushed into him to make him understand.

Slowly, his magic started covering her again. Soothing her. Nothing like the straight-out seduction of the last time. She felt protected and loved by him. As if he was hugging her and whispering reassuring words into her ear.

That was her best friend. Her Harry. Always looking after others.

Hermione didn't want to tell him no.

"You need blood for the bonding," she said suddenly.

It was easy to conjure a dagger out of thin air, even if her wand she had in hand wasn't properly matched to her. She brought it over her wrist and looked at Harry uncertainly.

He was growling at the blade, as if it had done it a personal grievance.

His eyes flickered back to her face.

"Neck."

Hermione blinked, "Excuse me?"

"Neck," he repeated. Harry turned his head to the side, exposing his bruised flesh on the left side of his neck before throwing her a pointed look in her direction.

Her mouth dropped open in a perfect round shape. As realization hit her, her eyes widened to an almost impossible size.

The dagger dropped to the floor with a loud clank.

"You want to drink from my neck?" she asked in between stutters. The question was difficult to get out past her nerves. There were butterflies in her stomach and her skin tingled with anticipation. It certainly sounded more appealing than cutting herself and feeding the blood to Harry.

Harry didn't react. It was like talking to a wall, for goodness sake!

She rose tentatively, listening to the excited panting of her best friend as she loosened her shirt and discarded her outer robes. He could see her collarbone and the beginning of the swell of her breasts, which were still thankfully concealed to his eyes. The blackness of his orbs seemed to darken the closer she got to him, despite his bounds.

It was an unusual sight, to see Harry Potter lust for her. Hermione couldn't deny the small swell of pleasure this notion brought. It was somewhat flattering in a way—she'd never caught his eye while they were at Hogwarts—it had always been Cho and Ginny, always—but here she was, bookish and plain Hermione Granger, sharing this intimate moment with him.

He'd chosen her.

Harry was a sight to behold. He moved, nimble, but slowly towards her pulsing arteries, opening his mouth a small fraction and letting his tongue flow freely out of it.

Hermione held her breath expectantly, grimacing slightly when she felt the wet appendage licking her skin. She didn't like the sensation much, but Veela did that when they had a partner to feed from, she told herself quickly. The saliva would numb the pain when it came.

Harry sniffed her neck and purred. It left Hermione shivering in a mix of pleasure and uncertainty—she was being seduced, all right.

The weight of the entire situation fell on her suddenly. She was binding herself to this person—Harry, her best friend since first year—in a completely sexual way. The thought wouldn't have bothered her as much if Harry hadn't expressed his platonic feelings towards her.

Oh, she had no doubts that he wanted her. The extra stiff member in his nether regions assured her of his feelings towards her in this state. Besides, if he hadn't wanted her, he wouldn't have convinced her to Mate with him in the first place. Or rejected Ginny.

The problem was centred in what would happen after this. Right now, she couldn't bring herself to mind the change in their relationship. In fact, _she_ was rather enjoying the way his magic was caressing hers intimately, evoking sensations that no kisses from Ron had ever elicited from her.

The problem was the aftermath.

Harry wasn't himself. She herself was dealing with the fact that she and Ron most certainly wouldn't get together after all. A lust-driven Harry and his rebounding best friend... Definitely not the best start of a serious relationship, even with seven years of friendship behind the two of them.

Her heart grew heavy when her mind jumped to conclusions.

She didn't move away, but her mouth was moving before she was even conscious of her action.

Hermione would try one last time.

"Harry," she called softly. She stifled a moan when his magic pressed against her and his sharp teeth nibbled on her skin softly enough not to break skin. Hermione reminded herself to focus. "Are you sure you want this?"

No answer. Not that she expected any. Instead she got a guttural sound that made her weak on her knees. The sheer possessiveness of it made her want to melt into a puddle of goo.

In the back of her mind, she realized that her best friend was buried somewhere deep inside of his subconscious. She had little to no chance of contacting his human counterpart while they did this. Hermione just hoped that he would forgive her. Eventually. Maybe.

Hermione bit her lip.

"Harry…" she whimpered.

The Veela broke away from her neck. Her eyes met his. His growl told her things he wouldn't have been able to utter even when he had been in his most sane moments. His appreciation for her scent was apparent the more he pressed himself against her.

She climbed on the bed, hovering over him. They had a moment of stillness when the two of them just stared at each other.

Then Hermione descended on his lips and locked them both in a toe-curling kiss. They were both inexperienced, but that did not seem to matter much. Hermione was determined to make this moment pleasurable for the two of them. Even if the happiness didn't last long, she would treasure this moment in her heart.

Harry undoubtedly approved. It was a shame that he was still incapable of any significant movements, as it left Hermione doing everything. But Hermione was also a bit wary of what would happen if she let him do as he pleased. She had a hunch that she would lose her maidenhead as well if she gave him too much leeway and she wasn't prepared for sexual intercourse of any kind just yet.

He bit her on her lips and instantly sucked the tendrils of blood that began to ooze out. Nothing like perfunctory a sample—he tasted her with the expressed desire of a lover.

"Harry…" she whimpered, but for a whole another reason altogether.

This was purely intimate and primitive—she didn't know what she was doing, but she also couldn't deny how right it felt. He wasn't the only one aroused there. She was positively flushed and panting. Soon, she found herself rubbing him down there, inwardly wishing they hadn't bound his hands or legs.

"Mione," he panted. He licked her again in the neck. She let him with a shiver. "Mine," he groaned against skin. "Mine."

"Yours," Hermione panted. "Yours."

They had reached a crucial state. She knew it. He knew it.

It was time.

She could smell the heavenly scent of his venom dripping from his fangs before he dug them into her bloodstream. She waited for him in anticipation and desire, involuntarily holding back her breath.

He didn't disappoint.

His fangs pierced without halting and she sucked back a scream of delight when he purred against her neck in his own ecstasy. Black spots appeared on her vision as he sucked, but she hardly cared. She was in the middle of a venom-induced orgasm. Hermione threw her head back, mouth open in a mute scream. She could feel their two cores begin to merge. It wasn't now _just_ a connection, but they were effectively being united as one in the most pleasing way possible.

Needless to say, she was thoroughly enjoying it.

Her pants were soon cut off with a longwinded cry.

As they both descended from their climax, she felt him pull his fangs out of her neck. He lapped at the wounds he had left, sweeping off her skin what leaked out from the small holes until nothing didn't anymore. When he was finished, he tugged her closer to his chest and purred. As she was feeling sleepy, she didn't mind her new position and just eased against his body heat.

The strong arms around her felt just _right._

"I love you, Harry," she mumbled sleepily.

The same feeling of elation they shared in their new bond increased by leaps and bounds.

Feeling his best friend's content purring, Hermione sighed happily. Sleep welcomed her quickly.

Harry's eyes, black as they were, began to fade into green as they closed. He smiled into their embrace.


End file.
